


Storge

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Childbirth, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Imprinting, Motherhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 06:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12451851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Every mother has her limits. Della knew hers.





	Storge

Motherhood was a needle and thread.

Its needle punctured the heart, stitching the flesh in a fashion to cater to its newfound impression.

Love and affection modified the brain network. An intangible thread looped around the mother’s and child’s hearts, forging an unbreakable bridge between them.

It was not only impossible but unthinkable to not possess this sensation upon their first meeting.

Della shifted the three infants in her arms. What was it with hatchlings? They looked more like three stuffed animals rather than the wet, slimy, and very much alive creatures they were. When she stared at them, it was difficult to see beyond the yellow feathers, pebble shaped bills, and the quiet quacking emitting from them.

No matter how strange it felt, no matter how surreal it felt, these feeble creatures were hers. Unable to speak, walk, feed, or care for themselves, they needed her to survive. It was a fascinating concept. Their imminent survival depended on her ability to provide the essentials, and as she held them, she felt a beak bump softly against her blouse, searching for the hardened breast swollen with milk.

“I need help.” Immediately, a nurse arrived and retrieved Huey and Louie, returning them to their beds. Her fingers played at the buttons. She’d forgotten the pump back at the apartment, a complimentary item the hospital provided for mothers. He didn’t need to be directed towards her nipple. His nostrils twitched as his lips latched firmly on the nipple, squeezing her milk.

Della leaned her head back on the chair. Something wasn’t right, but it wasn’t wrong either. Where was the needle? Her grandmother was thorough in her explanation; the sensation all mothers felt after the laying, the knock your socks off punch to the heart when your child cracked through its inner and outer membrane. When the doctor confirmed Huey would survive, it was more than relief that melted off her shoulders, and when the nurse reported Dewey and Louie were just fine, she cried openly, sniffling into her scarf.

But as she rocked them to sleep, as she breastfed them in the hatchling room, she felt not quite emptiness but not quite feeling either. She held them and loved them. This was love. It was not, to her growing suspicion, the love most mothers held upon seeing their children for the first time. Della thought it’d pass after the first day, but they would be a month old soon and nothing had changed for her. She searched for the description as she cupped Dewey’s head carefully.

 _“Welcome to the world, boys.”_ Her brow furrowed. He held them not as if they were toys but as if they were priceless heirlooms. He held them as Uncle Scrooge did when he discovered the lost tomb of Queen Nefertiti, with the utmost delicacy, but that couldn’t compare to what Della saw on the first day. How he stared, no, gazed at them. Her feathers bristled, and she stared at Dewey, having his fill released her nipple and snuggled against her.

She lifted him onto her shoulder and gently patted his back. Donald held them and quacked. He cooed and gushed, and she simply watched him, a faint smile on her face. The boys stuck their fingers out at him, followed him with their weak vision. They couldn’t see with their eyes. That wouldn’t happen until six weeks, but they knew he was near. It’d been cute then, still was, but the meaning sunk to her stomach.

Dewey burped. She raised him to face her and stared at the infant’s face, staring at his yellow fluff and black pitch eyes. He searched for her. He stared back and quacked softly. Where was it? Why couldn’t she feel it? Della swallowed and smiled. She didn't have the energy to notify the nurse the infant had fallen asleep on her shoulder. 

Grandma Elvira was wrong.

Her needle wasn't lost.

It never was.

**Author's Note:**

> Imprinting is a big deal in duck culture.


End file.
